


Bees make Honey and Sherlock Holmes makes himself

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angel!Lock, I'm writing this at 3 am, Jim controls him, Jim is a Little Shit, John Watson military man, John is Sherlock's new case, John is a Mess, John is his motivation, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sherlock Holmes and Bees, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock and rehab, dark!john, i honestly don't know, this'll probably be really shitty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-11 17:21:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 7,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5635399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sherlock is an animal with anger issues...</p>
          </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes laid motionless on a cot in the corner of a drug den, so many drugs pumping through his system that every motion made his head swim. His fingers would occasionally twitch but other than that he was still. His mind spun in circles, each one making him dizzier. He hadn’t meant for this to happen, not this time, but he knew that would mean nothing to his big brother, whom, he guessed- no, knew, was on his way to pick up his baby brother. Sherlock had promised Mycroft. He _promised_. No more drugs. Not again. Mycroft had often threatened him before but none had been as serious as this. Sherlock Holmes was done for. Mycroft had swore that if he did this again, Mycroft would have him put in rehab. 

Sherlock tried to get himself to stand, to do anything to escape the clutches of doom that were closing in on him, but the best he could do was a little grunting, causing the others in the drug den to curse as they were woken from their peaceful hallucinations. 

_Get over it. You’re about to have an even scarier problem on your hands._

Sherlock could sense Mycroft’s presence before he could see him. He forced himself to sit up, causing his head to pound and his heart to speed up again. 

_It’s still beating? I thought it had gone away._

Although his head felt like a ton of bricks had just fallen on it, he was pleasantly surprised to find his heart beating. During his hallucinations, he had often sat up and in the drugged state he was in, thought he had left his physical body lying on the cot. Sometimes he questioned whether these were dreams or not. With how close he’s come in the past he wouldn’t be surprised. 

“Where’s the list?”

Mycroft’s voice floated down to Sherlock’s ears as he saw Mycroft unfold his arm. Sherlock blinked several times, trying to clear the fogginess from his brain, as he focused on remembering where he put it. 

“Coat…”

Mycroft nodded once and picked up Sherlock’s coat lying beside the cot, searching the pockets until he found the list. He carefully unfolded it and read his little brother’s scrawny handwriting as it listed an impossible amount of drugs for the human body to consume, of course Mycroft knew that Sherlock had been building up his system, making each time worse and worse by becoming more and more resilient to the drugs. Mycroft knew his little brother would have to own a drug cartel by the time he was 30, if he kept going at this rate, to get the amount that he needed to even feel slightly sated. 

Sherlock took in his surroundings, knowing each person in here would get threatened never to speak of the Holmes brothers in a drug den, though Sherlock knew, none of them actually cared. If they did have anybody to tell then they wouldn’t be where they were now. Sherlock knew that all too well. 

Mycroft carried Sherlock out to his car, helping him into a laying down position in the backseat where Mycroft could hold Sherlock’s head and make sure he stayed up, just awake enough not to fall asleep. Mycroft knew that once Sherlock feel asleep that he might not get back up. After all, it's not the fall that kills you, it's the landing.


	2. The need for more

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is an animal with anger issues...

Sherlock woke up to an empty room, the cold morning air hitting him like a slap to the face. He rose slowly, sitting up in the scratchy sheets, and looked around his room. He knew he wasn't alone. Here were cameras. Disabling them would be first thing on his list of things to do. Second would be to figure out where he is.

He could hardly remember the night before, but he knew that is wasn't good. Sherlock pulled the IV out of his arm, a good sign he hadn't been kidnapped from the drug den. 

_The drug den!_

Now it started coming back to him. Mycroft had picked him up from the drug den. He hsd swore he had Sherlock committed to rehab, apparently he hadn't been joking. He started ruling out possible facilities he could be in his head as he took down Mycroft's cameras. 

Mycroft would want him away from London so the urge to run wouldn't be as great, but not too far as to give Sherlock the feeling he was being shunned. Sherlock looked around the room, he had a list of the rehab facilities in he area in the pocket of his coat.

_His coat._

Sherlock searched all the empty drawers of his new room and he couldn't even find his shoes. Apparently as part of the welcoming procedures they had to check his clothes. Mycroft would never hear the end of this, Sherlock would make sure of it. First you send him off to rehab by himself, then you let hem take him clothes!

The door to his room opened wide as a man wearing the same green hospital clothes Sherlock was in walked into the room with a tray of eggs and bacon. 

"Goodmorning, Mr. Holmes!" 

He was all fake smiles and cheeriness until he saw Sherlock was on the other side of the room, perched like an animal, ready to kill. Sherlock had climbed onto the dresser and was watching the man from above, getting a better deduction. 

"Mr. Holmes?" 

He man's voice was shaky, scared. 

Sherlock's lip trembled, it was easy, too easy. Sherlock had had a hard time keeping his mouth shut all this time. 

"You're the middle child in a family of three, that's easy from your evident need of approval. Your mother is trailer park trash and got pregnant in high school, judging by your preppy attitude and statistics, she was a cheerleader who got pregnant by the quarterback. Much to her shock, he left after the third pregnancy, claiming he could get a better life in London. You took care of your mother as your older sister followed in her mom's footsteps. You never got recognized for all you did and so you moved to London, seeking a better life." 

Sherlock smirked as his voice deepened, staring at the man like he was his next meal. 

"Sir, I'm going to need you to-"

"But it didn't work for you, did it?!" 

Sherlock was yelling now, his anger starting to take over. His anger at Mycroft, anger over this whole thing. 

"Is this what you want?! To take care of pathetic addicts that can't take care of themselves!"

A crowd had gathered at some point while Sherlock was yelling, the nurses walked over and started trying to get him to calm down. Sherlock was out of it, the need for drugs taking over everything. 

"Well, I'm not an addict, I'm a user! I don't belong here! I don't..belong.."

His vision faded as a sedative took control as lulled him to sleep.


	3. Harriet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a couple months later...

Harry sat on bench next to a tall, lanky man who she'd become friends with over her few months of rehab. Clara has forced Harry to go, it was Clara or the alcohol. It was a difficult decision. Yes, Harry loved Clara, but over the years, Harry had found that the bottom of an empty liquor bottle was much more comforting. Of course, she couldn't say that, so, here she was. 

The man looked up over his book at her with his piercing eyes. 

"Who are you waiting on?" 

Harry was always surprised when he did this, when he deduced her. She looked over at him and brushed his dark curls away from his eyes. "My brother, Sherlock. I told him all about you and he can't wait to meet be my best friend."

Sherlock's eyes softened a little when she said her brother. Harry had always stayed with him during thsee hours, Visiting hours. Sherlock never had any visitors. He'd told her of a brother, he never spoke of him well, but she could tell he missed him. 

"Oh. You told him about me?"

"Of course." 

" Why?" 

This feeling was new to Sherlock, he couldn't quite place it, but...It felt good. He stared at the short blonde that has formed such a bond with him. She was beautiful, he knew that. He knew she felt sorry for him but the company was nice. He was willing to ignore it. 

"Because you're my friend."

She stared at him, confused. She thought and thought but could never place why he'd think she wouldn't talk about him. He was her best friend. He knew more about her than she ever might know about herself. 

"That's-"

"Harry!"

Another short man ran into view, not only a short man, a man in an army uniform. His hair was slicked back and his hands were tan from fighting in what? Afghanistan , or Iraq? He'd have to find out later. Sherlock felt a flutter in his guts like smug himself had woken up and was beating against the walls of his guts. Sherlock knew this feeling, not that he wanted to, but he knew the feeling. Arousal. 

"John!" Harry yelled as she ran over to the man. She wrapped her arms around his neck as he lifted and twirled her. "I missed you, Johnny..."

John smiled, his smile was beautiful. It was as if all the stars combined. Sherlock had to look away from the brightness of it. He had never seen Harry smile so brightly, bu he knew their mother must have been a beautiful woman before the alcohol and abuse from their father overtook her. 

John let his sister down and looked at Sherlock, still smiling. He held his hand out to shake. 

"Hello, I'm Captain John Watson."


	4. Army Doctor's for sale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a while

Sherlock stared at the hand extended out to him, panicking. Was he asking for his hand or did he want to shake? Sherlock slowly reached his hand out and took John's, his hand feeling like a floppy fish. John smiled and shook the extended fish. They both watched as Sherlock's hand dropped to his side. Harry smiled and picked up her books. 

"Ready for dinner, Johnny?"

Johnny, so he went by Johnny, too. Sherlock quickly stuffed his hand into his pocket upset over the floppiness again. He never acted like this. He quickly looked around and picked up his books. 

"Of course. Are you inviting him?"

Harry reddened deeply and looked at Sherlock, embarrassment all over her face. 

"I-I forgot to ask. Sherlock, would you like to come with us? "

Her voice was shaky and Sherlock found it absolutely adorable.

"No, I won't intrude on you and your brother's reunion...You must have missed him immensely."

"I did." She smiled her little half smile and stuffed her hands into the pocket of her black skirt that barely came down to her mid-thigh, exposing her short sleek legs. Sherlock had to admit, even though she was so short that skirt made her look taller than she was and the way she wore it would make him straight, if she wanted him to be. Luckily, they both had their preferences. Which brought the question to Sherlock's mind; _What is Doctor Watson's preference?_

Sherlock smiled back and set his books on the bench, knowing that his aid would take them back to his room. 

"Sure, I'll go. What're we having?"

\--

After a long night of alcohol free drinks and the greasiest sliders on the menu, Sherlock made his way to his room, stoned out of his head. He wasn't alone, though. Behind him trailed a very giggly Doctor Watson. Sherlock snuck him into his room and they began undressing each other. 

Sherlock took Watson's large hand and kissed each knuckle before looking up, showing John his almost completely black eyes, and whispering in his sexiest baritone voice,

"I bet it takes a lot to bruise these knuckles, doesn't it, Doctor Watson?"

John stared at the taller man and smirked, pulling him close and kissing him roughly, their lips and teeth bumping with a bruising force. Sherlock moaned instantly, his heavy cock throbbing against his own stomach. 

"Well, I haven't seen you naked in quite a while, Sherlock. I think it was before the drugs."

Mycroft's voice was smooth and so startling in that moment that Sherlock bit John's tongue. He quickly pulled away from his partner and pulled on his robe. 

"What the _hell_ are you doing in my room?!"

"Checking up on you. I always come on Fridays." Mycroft's sigh was audible as he sat on the bed and picked up Doctor Watson's clothing, carefully handing them to him. "I believe now would be a good time to leave."

John stared at them, confused and embarrassed as he pulled on clothes. He nodded towards Sherlock and left the room.

Mycroft looked up at Sherlock. "Did you have to?" He stood and made his way over to Sherlock. "Where's the list?"


	5. Chapeter 5

Sherlock glared at his older brother, all sorts of language filling his head, but he kept his mouth in check because Mycroft could put him anywhere. He could get locked up for this. Sherlock reached into his pocket and tossed the balled up piece of paper at Mycroft, making sure to aim at his crooked little nose. Mycroft read over the list as Sherlock got into his pajamas, expecting the speech that always came with one of his drug-ups.

"Christ, Sherlock. How did you let yourself get into this mess?"

The worst thing about it all to Sherlock was the fact that Mycroft actually pretended to care. He pretended to want to help, which only made Sherlock want to do it more. Sherlock looked up at Mycroft from his position on the bed where he had been pulling at his curls. His curly black hair had always been a prize to him. Mycroft had never understood why he dyed it. They both had beautiful ginger hair, but Sherlock had to dye his.

"Stop pretending like you care, Mycroft. The only reason you even try to 'help' is so I won't jeopardize your position in the government. No, not position. So I won't affect _your_ government."

Mycroft stared at his little brother, wondering how they had drifted apart so quickly. He put the list in his notebook and stuck the notebook into the breast pocket of his 3-piece suit.  
He walked over and started to sit by Sherlock when he saw Sherlock's whole body stiffen. Sensing that sitting might be pushing his luck, Mycroft walked to the door, leaning against it as he thought about what to say.

"So, Doctor Watson. I knew you were interested. I just didn't think you would act so impulsively."

Mycroft barely saw it before it happened. Next thing he knew his arm was twisted behind his bac and his leg was the only thing holding him up other than Sherlock's grip on his arm. Sherlock had kicked, and most likely shattered Mycroft's right patella. Mycroft could tell that from the pain and the pulses running through his legs.

"Don't talk like I'm a child. We both know I'm not, even if I occasionally decide to have a brief affair."

Mycroft was gasping from the pain by now. He fought back tears from the pain that threatened to spill out. 

"I was going to offer a deal."

"What kind of the deal?"

"One where I threaten your current love interest so you'll do what I want."

"What's the threat?'

Sherlock slowly let go of his bigger brother and made his way over to his own bathroom. 

"I won't have Doctor Watson sent back to war if you stay off the drugs."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gapping to the future...*weird space sounds* Annnnyyyyways, my take of A Study in Pink. Please don't kill me for changing it a bit.

Sherlock sat at the lab table in Bart's, pipet in hand, working on his latest experiment. He had given up the drugs, and his promise to Mycroft. John had been sent back. Mycroft had payed Greg and gotten him to let Sherlock work with Scotland Yard. Even though Sherlock seemed to hate it, Mycroft knew he secretly liked having something to take his mind off the drugs. 

Coffee. Molly has asked him out. It wasn't a surprise, but it was a disappointment. Sherlock had been trying to send her the signals, don't get him wrong, he might have said yes, had it not been for rehab. He'd promised Mycroft not to get in a relationship for a year. That was something he'd decided he could do. No need. No one interested him.

The door to the lab opened and Sherlock didn't need to look up to know it was Mike. The laugh, the smell, the _thump, thump, thump_ Of his swollen feet plunking on down through the hall disturbing his silence that Sherlock so desperately needed to survive. 

"Well, it's a bit different from my day."

Sherlock had heard that voice before. It almost sounded like, no. No. He was in Afghanistan, probably dead. Sherlock stole a quick glance up and saw him. _him._ John Watson. 

Sherlock remembered Mike and gained his composure before he took the phone John had offered to him. He walked over. 

_Where did he send you?_

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John stared at the taller man, uncomprehending. Why did this man seem familiar? 

"Afghanistan. Do I know you?" 

"You used to but I assume my brother got your therapist to convince you I'm not really real."

"I'm sorry. Who are you?"

Sherlock stared at John. His eyes portrayed no sadness or hint at anything other than pure coldness. 

"I know a nice little flat on Baker Street, the both of us could afford it combined." Sherlock pulled on his coat and scarf with extra flair. He looked bake at John. Sherlock turned back to the door and started to leave before popping his head back in. "Oh, the name's Sherlock Holmes. And the address is 221b Baker Street." Then he closed the door and walked off to the morgue to get his riding crop.

John turned and looked at Mike, his eyes huge. 

"Yeah, he's always like that."


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock picked up the last box, bringing it in from the street. He set the box on his new desk and looked around the flat. He had been so lucky to find Ms. Hudson. He knew he didn't _actually_ find her. She would have been put in Sherlock's path by Mycroft. He didn't let Sherlock do anything on his own anymore. Not since rehab. 

Sherlock sat in the gray chair instead of the red chair across from it. If John actually came...that would be his. All of this would be his. Sherlock would give him everything. He already had the bedroom set up to hold two. He even only used half the closet, which is very difficult for Sherlock since he's never had to share a closet in his life. Even in rehab where most people had bunk mates. Mycroft had made sure of that. Sherlock was ready for this, he knew it. Anyways, this might be the only chance Sherlock had to have John Watson. He'd screwed up the first time, but he wouldn't mess up this time. Not again.

Sherlock stood, realizing he couldn't be _here_ when John showed up. He couldn't be waiting. Sherlock walked out of the back door of Mrs. Hudson's flat and came around just in time to see John. 

"Mr. Holmes."

He still didn't know him. It hurt Sherlock to see John search and find that he couldn't, he just doesn't remember Sherlock. Then it struck him.

_What if John didn't want to move in with Sherlock?_

Sherlock pushed the question to the back of his mind and held out his hand to John, smiling his best nervous smile. 

"Sherlock, please."

Sherlock's intestines felt like they were twisted together and on fire as he 'casually' chatted with John about the flat. Sherlock had almost forgotten about the limp. He'd have to talk to Mycroft about that.

"There's another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing to bedrooms."

Sherlock perked up, trying not to seem too interested. He had planned with Ms. Hudson. She was supposed ask John about the bedroom and then talk about the married ones next door. Sherlock was trying to plant the seeds in John's mind early. 

"Of course we'll be needing two. Why wouldn't we be needing two?"

Ms. Hudson glanced at Sherlock and quickly improvised. 

"We've got all sorts here. Mrs. Turner next door s'got married ones."

Sherlock's heart sunk.

_Oh._

He's not-at least he's not going to admit it. Sherlock quickly looked out the window. Lestrade. Perfect timing. 

Where's a police officer when you need one? Helping a consulting detective out of an awkward situation.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a take of the great game. For a little bit I might include bits of episodes.

Sherlock fired into the wall as he waited for John to come home. This is how Sherlock wanted John to see him; the clever detective who can shoot straight. John would love it, after all, he was in the army. He'd have to love a sharp shooter. 

Sherlock didn't look up from the floor when he heard John start booming up the steps. Perfecting his aim, he shot three times into the wall.

"What the _hell_ are you doing?"

John's voice was unmistakable. So, Sherlock lowered his voice another octave.

"Bored."

"What?"

"Bored!" With that Sherlock stood with a flourish and shot the wall three more times before letting John take his gun. Sherlock walked over to the wall and investigated his aim when he heard John go on rambling. Sherlock flopped onto the couch and barely paid attention to John's fuss over the head. He went into his mind palace for a moment when he was pulled out by John's primary school knowledge of the solar system. Honestly, John could be so blind. Sherlock had asked him out a couple weeks ago and John assumed he didn't know what a date was. But Sherlock persevered. 

"Where are you going?"

He'd tuned out too much. John was standing, angry, as he pulled his coat back on and stormed out of the flat. Sherlock curled back up into the back of the couch, wondering what he had said. He felt John's warmed calloused hand on his shoulder, gently rubbing his back. He heard John's soft voice whisper sweet nothings in his ear as John assured him that he loved Sherlock. The he would never leave. 

Sherlock rolled over to hug the man, but Sherlock was only confronted with cold air and emptiness. He never realized just how alone he was until John came into his life. Sherlock sat up, trying to clear his mind of the hands, the voice, the soft hair, the list goes on and on for Sherlock. Not like his other lists, though, well, actually, they are. In a way John is Sherlock's drug. John keeps Sherlock entertained.

Sherlock stood and walked over to the window, picking up his violin an starting to play. Mycroft would be here in the morning to give Sherlock a case that Mycroft just couldn't do the legwork.

Sherlock sneered. It's not that hard. Especially this case.

Sherlock froze as he saw Mycroft's care pull up. He watched him get out and straighten the knocker.

"You've moved in with him. Does he remember you?"

"Of course not, Mycroft. Not since you brainwashed him."

Mycroft froze in the doorway. "Step away from the window, brother mine."

"Why?"

Just as Sherlock said it he realized why. 

A big blast came from the flats across the streets and blew through the windows. Glass shattered against Sherlock as the fire and ash floated in. Sherlock fell back in surprise and banged his head on the floor, drifting unconscious immediately.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. I really am.

John walked into the hospital Sherlock was currently staying at and almost rammed into Mycroft before he slowed down. His heart was beating 90 miles a minute and his breathing was ragged.

"John."

Mycroft's voice was smooth, John wouldn't have even noticed he was crying if he hadn't looked up. Mycroft's eyes were gray and the eyelids drooped of sleepiness. John could only assume Mycroft had stayed awake overnight holding Sherlock's hand. 

Mycroft Holmes was crying. Joh had only seen Mycroft three or four times after the cabbie murder and even through the insults he never even flinched. He was crying. This had to be bad. 

"What happened?"

John hadn't noticed how seeing Mycroft cry had made his voice so much more...not his own. His own voice was shaking and close to cracking. He pushed the tears pricking at his eyes away. Two men crying in a hall of a hospital. Wouldn't look good. 

"He banged his head really bad, John."

John was surprised. Usually Mycroft used elegant language to state obvious points. 

"How bad?"

"He hasn't woken up. The Doctor's aren't sure when he will." Mycroft looked down at his hand that was currently clutched around the umbrella. Years of legwork had made him used to holding a gun or weapon in his hand during stressful cases. Now, he simply carried an umbrella so he wouldn't look out of place. It was fitting for his place in the government. 

"He hasn't-"

"You know, John, I used to think I could help my little brother. I would always babysit him. 'Take care of William tonight, Myke.' I always promised I would.-" Mycroft's voice caught as he went on, tears streaming violently down his flushed cheeks as he spoke. "I continued to take care of him when he started using needles for swords. But something changed. He didn't want my help. And my help just continued to make him pull away."

John stared at the taller man, shocked by the amount of emotion he was showing. "Mycroft, you can't blame yourself..."

"But I can, John. Maybe if I hadn't..."

"Hadn't what?"

"Hadn't taken you away. You could have helped him." Mycroft pulled a note out of his pocket. Just a crumpled up white piece of paper. Mycroft carefully handed it over to John. "If-When he wakes up...Please take care of my brother, John. He cares more than you realise."

Mycroft turned and dried his tears before he walked out of the hospital into the cold of London.


	10. Memories

John Watson stared at the note. Now, he had been through military training and the war but nothing had knotted up his stomach more than this. _What was this?_ John slowly smoothed the paper out and saw Sherlock's scrawny scribbling all over it. 

A letter. 

A letter dated from when John had just gone off to the army.

A letter after he had been re-recruited.

_How?_

How could Sherlock have sent him a letter before they even knew eat other? John knew it wasn't impossible for Sherlock, but...It wasn't normal. 

_He's done stranger things._

John focused his thoughts and started reading from the paper. 

_An apology? What did he do?_

John continued to read over the note and everything started to come back to mind. The dates, the laughs, the kissing. John's head felt like someone had set a firecracker off. 

_Do you remember, John? Remember when we sat in the bench I met you at? They've provably already made you forget. But, we sat at that bench, John. We sat and held hands as we talked. You promised me you'd always be there. For me. You'd never go back to war. I...I wanted to tell you, John. Tell you that my brother was blackmailing me so I wouldn't shoot up, but...I knew you'd be angry and your face just looked so relaxed as you watched the ducks swim. So I didn't. I never did get around to it._

John's eyes twitched as his tears started leaking out.

_I do. I remember, Sherlock._

John read on a bit, even though his hands were shaking. Even though he was crying in the middle of the hospital. He didn't care how he looked not now. 

_Then there was the fight. I finally told you and...The look in your eyes was enough to kill. I had felt the betrayal you felt when you looked at me. I tried to explain myself, explain that I was doing better because of you, but..You grabbed your jacket and walked out before I could. You left me at the restaurant alone. I called you continuously but you wouldn't answer._

John tried to calm his shaking hands before they caused him to rip the only letter Sherlock had ever written him. 

_I left after they kicked me out. I searched for you in the parking lot before I gave up. I walked the streets in the freezing rain, John. I walked alone waiting for you. I tried texting you bee jokes. You would always respond to thise, but you didn't this time. I gave up, John. I'm so sorry. If I didn't have you then there was no point. No point to Mycroft's game anymore. So shot up. Morphine, it would slow my mind down the best. It was several needles later that Mycroft found me. He found me curled up behind a cinema. I wouldn't let him touch me, John. I only wanted you and I knew that you would never want me back. Never._

John stared at the paper. That was it. He hadn't written anything else. Not even a 'Goodbye'. John carefully folded it up and slipped it into his pocket as he walked into the hospital room where Sherlock was staying. 

John froze as he saw what was staring at him. Sherlock was out of bed and reading a note left by the few flower basket things. 

"Sherlock, what the _hell_?"

Sherlock slowly turned and looked at the ort man standing in the doorway and gave a small pained smile. His hair was messy and he was paler than usual but it was Sherlock. 

"Hello, John. Did you bring my clothes? I don't want to climb out of the window with my arse exposed."

Sherlock stared at John, clearly proud of the butt joke. Sherlock knew John loved those. 

John stared at the detective who clearly thought he was _so_ clever. It almost made John angry how Sherlock was pretending nothing happened. How there was nothing between them. Then it hit him.

He was acting like that because there wasn't. At least, not that he knew John knew of. Because John hadn't known. 

John walked across the room to the taller man, and pulled him down into a bruising kiss.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. I've been reading "Ideal Father" By Tiffanilocked95. I would suggest it to anybody in need of extreme Parent!lock fluff.

Sherlock pulled away and stared at he shorter man, mind running wild from the new emotion the doctor was showing. He tried speaking several times but all he could get out were little huffs of air. The doctor stared at the taller man, small smile pulling on the corners of his mouth. He could tell the confusion on Sherlock's face and slowly pulled the paper out of his pocket and slid it into Sherlock's palm. 

"Mycroft gave this to me. I remember, Sherlock. I remember it now. I'm so sorry. I knew I knew you. I knew it."

Sherlock recognized the paper immediately, terrified of what was happening. Years of building up walls and guards had been brought down so quickly by John Watson, but this was too much. John had just shot a hole right through him. John had read the very core of Sherlock. Read his heart like Sherlock had displayed it on his sleeve. Anger rose up from years of believing he would never be able to love John. Of Mycroft telling him not to get involved. Sherlock didn't look at the doctor.

"I'm sorry, John. You were never meant to see this. Maybe at the time when I loved you, but not-not now. Not anymore."

John stared at Sherlock, eyes flashing with hurt. He gave the taller man a curt nod and helped him back into the bed. 

"Mycroft will want to know you're awake."

"He can know later. When he watches us enter our flat."

"Not our flat, Sherlock. Your flat. Mycroft will come watch you and I'll go get my stuff."

"What? John, we can-we can work this out."

"No, Sherlock. I don't think we can." 

John pulled on his coat the words flying out before he would think about them. He sent Mycroft a text telling him Sherlock was awake and then stormed out of the hospital to the flat that they shared. He walked up to his room, ignoring all the emotions running through him. He packed up his essentials and walked out. Catching a cab and getting a room at motel a few blocks away.

John sat on the creaky bed of the hotel room, thinking over everything that had just happened. He had never really thought of Sherlock as his type. He knew Sherlock was attractive, he'd always been attractive. He just...didn't think he was his type. Until Mycroft had given him the paper. Obviously Sherlock had been his type. So, what was different? It just didn't make sense to him. He was still unsure about so much. 

John got up and started filling the drawers with his stuff when he thought he heard someone scuffle around. He looked around and when he saw it was nothing quickly dismissed it as a rat. Many rooms like this had rodents. 

His phone started buzzing on the glass counter of the table in the corner of the room. He assumed it was Sherlock just trying to apologize for being a dick earlier, and knew that checking the message would only encourage him to keep texting. So John pulled on his coat and stuck his gun into the back of his trousers. The gun was easily accessible, yet not easy to detect on him.

He stormed out of the room and down the street. It was 9:00 at night and he knew some of his mates would still be drinking far beyond that. Maybe after he cleared his head tonight he could go back tomorrow. Even if it meant Sherlock automatically deducing his drinking off him.

\---

Mycroft walked into the hospital room, slightly surprised that Sherlock was still there.

"Where's John?"

Sherlock looked up at the elder Holmes, obviously using the hospital's morphine to his advantage. His eyes were stormy and mixed with so many emotions that Mycroft had to look away. 

"He's left hasn't he?"

Mycroft didn't have to look back at the detective to know he was right.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. But he had to know."

"Could it not have waited until I was officially out of rehab and could love him like he wanted?"

Mycroft was surprised that his brother was actually speaking to him. He cleared his throat and tried to explain himself.

"What if you had died? Would you have rathered that I tell him at your funeral? He would never have forgiven-"

" _ **AND NOW HE WON'T FORGIVE ME!!**_ "

Sherlock glared at his older brother, not carrying if he was making a scene.

" _ **I had to deny him. I told him I didn't love him, Mycroft!**_ "

Sherlock was crying, his tears were streaming down his cheeks, the drugs flowing into his system the only thing keeping him from getting up and hurting the elder Holmes. 

" _ **And now he's leaving my flat. He's going to get drunk, and leave me forever. _ **"**_**_

Mycroft walked to the bed in the center of the room and took his brother's hand. He couldn't stand to be the reason for his brother's loss at love for a second time. He gently squeezed his hand and spoke softly.

_"I'll make sure he'll never leave you."_


	12. John Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please don't kill me. John will be...worked on

John stared at the bottle he was holding in his hand, memories of rescuing Harrie from bars when she was so hammered she couldn't think. His hand was shaking, but he didn't notice. He could hardly notice anything above the roar of cheers from the crowd as their team won.

John liked around quickly, he was looking for a one-night stand, no strings attache'd relationship tonight, just to get Sherlock out of his head. 

John's eyes found a short, busy female in the corner suitable. She was reading a book and seemed very intent on pretending everyone else didn't exist. 

He chugged down his fifth beer and stumbled over to the girl's booth, effortlessly sliding into one cut one side. 

"Whatcha' readin' there?"

Her black-ish curls and electric blue highlights barely moved as she turned the page and pushed her glasses up. He voice was small but quick and full of atttitude.

"Obviously not a book about waiting for a drunkard like you to come over and interrupt me. Please leave."

John stared at her, alarmed by how disinterested she was. He had never been shot down, well, he _usually_ wasn't shot down, but this girl hadn't even looked at him.

John slowly decided that he wasn't going to leave, not yet.

"You didn't even look at me. Maybe, I'm not drunk."

She put her finger up on a word as if she was holding her place and closed the book around her finger. She looked up, black hair falling to sides of her face to reveal shockingly blue eyes and deep collarbones. 

It reminded him too much of Sherlock. 

"I can tell from the amount of spittle that flew onto my book from you last comment that you are, very well, drunk"

She grabbed her purse, sticking a bookmark into her book and rubbing strawberry scented hand sanitizer into her hands before she stood, ready to leave.

_Keep that hand sanitizer. You'll be needing it when I'm done with you._

John stood, too, keeping close to the younger woman beside him. He took her hand in his and leaned in close before whispering in her ear.

"I'm Captain John Watson Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, a veteran of Kandahar, Helman's, and Bart's Hospital. Let me examine her body."

She turned her head slowly to look at him, eyes side from shock and nodded. She didn't know if what he said was true but she knew that the gun he was holding against her side closest to him, was most definitely real and loaded. 

John led her out of the bar and pulled her into an alley, covering her mouth before she could scream and ripping her buttoned shirt off, buttons flying everywhere as he assaulted her neck with sloppy kisses. He then used the shirt to gag her and forced her to straddle his hips as he went through her bag. Nothing good. 

She was desperately trying to beg through the gag in her mouth as hysterical tears streamed down her face, John almost felt bad for her. Until he bent her over and silenced her cries by pounding into her until she was competent silent, the only sign of distress being the shaking as she sobbed silently. 

John pushed her away and was zipping up as he heard it, him, the slow clapping from behind him as he sweet Irish voice purred into his ear. 

"Go ahead, Johnny-Boy. Finish the job. Make Daddy proud." 

John didn't understand why he suddenly felt so compelled to the voice as it sang to him in his murderous tones, but he pulled out his pocket knife and kneeled over the girl, who he realized was now barely old enough to drink, and slit her throat. Letting the blood pour over his hands. It felt amazing. 

Whatever creature had just risen in him, John hoped it never left.


	13. Sorry, not sorry

John cursed as his dream started to fade around him, suddenly jolting him back to reality, but the laughter didn't stop. His head pounded as he realized the room wasn't the bar. He was in a dark room, darkness surrounded him. The laugh, who was that? 

John tried to spread his arms and gain balance, but they were restricted. No, not a room. He space was much smaller than that. His arms and legs were tied behind him, and he was covered in a sheet. 

"Wakey, Wakey, Johnny-Boy...The show's almost ready to begin.."

The smooth Irish voice surrounded him, and seeped into his pores. He felt like his skin was melting off his face as the voice pulled at his inards.

"Sherly-pie won't like this," Singing. He was singing. "Me taking his pet, his _boyfriend_."

John squeezed his eyes shut and the sheet was suddenly taken off, revealing blue and red curtains and a long swimming pool. Kidnapped, then. 

"Who are you?!"

John's voice was rough and ragged, barely heard. 

His shouting only seemed to entertain the voice more, he heard the door open and swung around to watch a short man with black hair and a Westwood suit to walk in. 

"Don't remember me?" He faked sadness, then his eyes darken and he pouted. "Though, I guess Miss Molly Hooper didn't introduce you well, did you, my dear?" His eyes turned to the door he just came in."Do come in, darling. John will want to know he's been beaten by Miss Mousy Molly."

A flash of black appeared and then came to stand beside Jim. The smaller figure pulled off her hat and smirked, curly brunette locks falling to her shoulders. 

"Hello, John. Bet you never expected this." She giggled, and continued. "I used to be his pet, too. Sherlock's. But Jim showed me my potential. Now, Sherlock's got a new pet and made himself, oh, so, what's the word, Jim?" 

"I think you thinking of 'Vulnerable', love."

He smiled and kissed her nose, running his hands down her back and stroking her hips before looking up at the sky, eyeing for someone.

A red dot formed on Jim's face and roamed down to his crotch. Jim smirked, obviously not threatened by it. 

"Oh, Sebbbbyyyy, do calm down. Shooting my cock would only be bad for you."

Jim giggled, the words rolling off his tongue easily. 

"Actually, maybe it would help you to stop acting like such a gigantic dick all the time."

Jim looked at his phone and gently patted Molly's bum. 

"Time to get in position."

I had been covered in bombs and put in a puffer coat by this time and now I was being shoved into a stall. 

"Showtime."


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock walked into the seemingly abandoned swimming pool, his footsteps echoing off the tile floor.

"Sort of an odd place to 'burn the heart out of me', isn't it?"

Molly walked up behind him, footsteps silent as she raised her gun, already loaded and ready, up to his temple. Leaning up to whisper in his ear. John knew what she was saying, he had heard them rehearsing. 

_Is there anyone with you?_

John knew it was a useless question, Sherlock never consulted the police when they were necessary, but John did. It was why they worked so well together. John heard Sherlock mumbling his answers, he could tell by his voice that Sherlock was more focused on the surroundings than on the question. John slowly unzipped the jacket, trusting that nobody was focused on him anymore. He slipped off the jacket and pulled a tyre lever out of jeans. Always a useful weapon, nobody expects it.

John was preparing his grand entrance when he heard three gunshots and a body hit the floor, a big body. Sherlock's body. He heard the cruel Irish laugh bounce off the walls and the footsteps approaching his closet. John's heart pounded against his sternum as he thought of an escape. 

"Chill, John." Sherlock opened the curtain and looked at the lever now lifted above his head as if he were about to strike. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled at the shorter man. "Always prepared. I've just had a discussion with your captors, they're much more negotiable when they're dead." Sherlock took John's hand and led him out of the closet. "I always kind of hoped we could come out of the closet together."

John stared at Molly's body bleeding out on the floor beside a tall muscular blonde man's. 

Sherlock looked at John and helpfully supplied the answers.

"Sebastian Moran, Russian, 23. Jim Moriarty's favorite sex toy. Of course you know Molly." 

"But...I heard three gunshots."

Sherlock's eyes looked down at his own body and rested on a red wound on his abdomen. His eyes were still crinkled and he was still smiling, though he was slightly paler. 

" I-uh-I wouldn't let them get you. Jim is better with aim than you'd think."]

John's eyes widened and he reached into Sherlock's pocket, pulling out his phone and dialing up Mycroft's number. 

"Sherlock, I would have been fine. You didn't-have-to-I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock's eyes lit up and despite the wound he pulled the shorter man close, kissing him on the lips. 

"I've missed you, John."

{Sherlock? Sherlock, I swear if you've called me so I could listen to you and John, I'll put you on house arrest.}

Mycroft's voice shocked both the boys into jumping away from each other. John juggling the phone before he dropped it and Sherlock wincing as the blood kept pouring. 

{No, Mycroft. Sherlock's in desperate need of an ambulance. Thank you.}

John hung up the phone and shoved it into his pocket before walking over to Sherlock and helping him lie down. He took Sherlock's scarf and pressed it against the wound. 

"Focus on my voice."

"Of course, I will. What else could focus on, John? Anything else would push me towards the light."

"Shut up, you babbling idiot. It's a small wound to your left side. You're not dying."


	15. Epilogue

After a long hospital stay, a talk with Mycroft, and an explanation of why Sherlock couldn't date John before, Sherlock and John finally returned back to their cozy flat. Everything was quiet and Mrs. Hudson was estatic to have them home, especially because of their new found relationship.

John was settled into his chair and Sherlock was pacing the room, something obviously on his mind. John looked up at the detective as he paced, and put down the book he was reading. 

"Can I help you with something?"

Sherlock froze in his place and turned on the balls of his feet to look down at John. He eyes were peircing and his hair messy and floating around his head.

"You need to have intercourse."

John's eyes grew confused as he stared up at the taller man. 

"What?"

"You need to ejaculate inside a female that we both approve upon and impregnate her"

"Sherlock, I'm trying to understand why I would _need_ to have sex with a woman. I'm trying to understand why you want me to have a child with a woman!"

"Christ, John, it amazes me how blind you can be to your own light."

"Yeah, right. Thanks. Please explain."

"John, if you I'm impregnate a woman, then she can have our baby."

John stared at the grinning detective. He could feel the smile spreading across his face and it made Sherlock smile even wider.

"You're an idiot"

"I love you, too."


End file.
